


His Lofty Steed

by akathecentimetre



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 4,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akathecentimetre/pseuds/akathecentimetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of very short Roger moments, to be updated as often as I can manage. Couldn't help myself! <b>ON HIATUS 4-4-15</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Colic

Athos has been in the stables since supper, walking Roger in circles. Porthos is glad he was not there for the moment of discovery, to see the look on Athos’s face when he would have entered to see the stricken horse covered in hay and exhausted from rolling, sweating, shaking from the colic; to see Athos press his ear to his side and hear nothing. It might, as so much does about Athos, have driven him to tears.

By midnight, Athos has discarded his doublet, tossing it over the stall door as they pace round and round; when Porthos stumbles yawning out of the barracks into the courtyard the next morning the doublet remains but man and beast are gone, and, from the look on Aramis’s face, he knows that he, too, fears the worst.

They have to ask around for nearly an hour before they find their way out of the city gates, and see Roger ambling through a farmer’s fallow field, clearly tired but upright and swishing his tail nonchalantly at flies, his twisted insides cleared by the fresh grass and constant movement. Athos is curled up asleep in the meadow, hat over his face, and for a long time, Porthos and Aramis are content to just sit and keep watch. Treville may not appreciate their absence, but he will, they know, understand.


	2. Capture (Horse Sense)

“This isn’t going to work,” Porthos growls, and Aramis steps closer to him, puts a hand flat at the base of his spine.

“It’s worth a try. We’d be spotted immediately if we went out there ourselves.”

Roger, shorn of tack and bridle, has made his way about halfway across the field between them and the mercenaries’ nighttime camp. Aramis fancies he can hear the ocean through the trees, as though the Ile de Ré is but an arm’s reach away, but he knows they are far from safety; the presence of the band of armed Protestants in the distance is one proof of this, Athos’s chilly absence from their side another. With d’Artagnan picking his way through moving columns to find the Captain in the chaos around La Rochelle and the two of them left alone, their strength of arms would never be enough to overwhelm their enemies, nor would there be time enough, even in in the dark, for Aramis to pick them off one by one before they were discovered.

And so they wait, impatiently, and watch, as the black horse picks its way through the tall grass towards where the mercenaries’ own mounts lie and stand dozing at the edge of their scattered ring of tents, tack left lying carelessly around them and the crumpled form lying hog-tied in their midst.

“Puttin’ an awful lot of faith in that horse,” Porthos says, but even he, despite his initial pessimism, is sounding hopeful as Roger disappears among the herd, causing not a flicker of visible consternation from the men tending and talking around their distant fire.

A dark shape which might be Roger kneels; other horses shift sleepily, perhaps in consternation at the stranger suddenly among them, and Aramis hisses between his teeth as they lose sight of everything of importance in the dusk.

It had always been a long shot; the risks were obvious. The horse could be spotted, Athos might have been unconscious – and over all, the suspicion that it was they themselves who were the fools, for thinking that even a highly-trained beast could understand what they expected of him.

But hoofbeats sound wet and thickly in the grass not soon after, and Porthos straightens, barely waits long enough to remain unseen before he rushes to urge Roger further into the trees. Athos has clung to his back with little more than the strength in his knees, flopped on his stomach and swinging precariously, but he is brightly awake and lifts his head to smirk at Aramis as he approaches.

“What took you so long?”

“Forgive us, my friend,” Aramis says hurriedly as he cuts the ropes at Athos’s feet and helps him to slither to the ground, as Porthos, positively giggling with delighted relief, starts feeding Roger what looks like an entire pocket’s worth of apple slices. “It took us a while to realize – ”

“Honestly,” Athos grumbles, but there is no malice in him whatsoever as he slings a condescending arm around Aramis’s shoulders. “Sometimes I think this horse is the only one around here with _any_ sense…”


	3. Blondes (Sugar Cubes)

The guild procession for the drapers and their wives and children takes place on a sweltering day in the height of summer, and as they settle themselves into place guarding the route just after the break of dawn, Athos is having trouble keeping Roger still. It has been a frequent sight, his fidgeting and pawing, since the Comtesse de Larroque survived her pyre; d’Artagnan and Aramis (mostly Aramis) have put it down to the beast’s master’s discomfort and loneliness, and, given Athos’s relatively passive reaction, have taken to teasing him about it mercilessly.

“So early, Athos?” d’Artagnan chuckles, earning a glare. “Poor Roger, having to put up with your feelings.”

“Ah, it is merely a symptom of the previous night’s sleepless agony,” Aramis sighs dramatically, putting a hand on his heart. “If it were I – don’t look at me like that, Athos, I am hurt at your insinuation – I would not have passed a single night since in comfort.”

The procession begins before Athos can think of something suitable to reply, and d’Artagnan turns away, levering up slightly in his stirrups to try to catch sight of a certain head of auburn hair. Porthos hits out at Aramis, sitting slouched and relaxed in his saddle. “Leave ‘im alone. Roger’s probably uncomfortable in the heat, we all are.”

Aramis scoffs at the cessation of his fun, but also settles; though, as the morning progresses and the comely wives and daughters of Paris begin to file leisurely past, dressed in their best and many carrying or wearing proud examples of their husbands wares, his eye grows lascivious.

Athos is having to keep a strong hold of his reins as Roger shifts from foot to foot, chafing against the bit. His neck follows the crowd, his head tosses; Athos hisses between his teeth and works to draw him backwards, but there is no real irritation in his expression, just an exasperated fondness, as a few young girls escape from their mothers and chase their way over to the musketeers, reaching out with squeals and delighted giggles to pet Roger’s soft nose. He pushes at their pockets, searching for treats – not something Athos usually allows him – and one little tyke, perhaps four years old, white-blond, and pretty as the mother who hurries out of the procession to snatch her up and scold her, gets a nibble at her tiny ear.

“He seems to have a marked preference for blondes,” Aramis smirks as the children melt back into the crowd, and Athos huffs out a disgruntled sigh. “Perhaps he is merely imitating the disposition of his master?”

Athos remains silent for the rest of the parade, even as Roger’s head swivels back and forth, his ears flicking as the procession continues. It is only when they have finally turned and are making their way back to the garrison through the crowded streets that Athos mutters something about Ninon feeding Roger the last cubes of her perfect imported Brazilian sugar all the way to Blois, and Porthos bursts quietly into laughter. Aramis’s sly insinuations that they will just have to employ raven- and red-haired beauties to seduce Athos to redress the balance, along with the occasional brunette, merely prolong said laughter; Athos visibly resigns himself to Aramis’s torture, and all is right with the world.


	4. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From an idea by [JakartaInn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/JakartaInn/pseuds/JakartaInn)!

The left wheel of the Cardinal’s carriage splinters in two halfway to the palace at Fontainebleau, leaving the coach listing dangerously to one side and the two Red Guards who had been standing on its back limping away with splinters through their calves. The Cardinal is luckily (or not, depending on one’s perspective) unharmed, but the problem of continuing his journey soon becomes apparent: none of the huge horses employed to pull the carriage are suited to riding, and the dull silence which greets His Eminence’s call for a mount among his men is instantly and acutely embarrassing.

The small company of Musketeers also riding to the palace to join the King’s party have hung back until now, but as the Cardinal’s face flushes with anger and the Guards shrink in their uniforms, Aramis sees Athos swing his right foot out of his stirrup, and sighs.

“Your Eminence,” Athos murmurs, and kneels to present his hands for the Cardinal to step into; his eyes promising death, the Cardinal does so, and soon they are on their way again at a sedate walking pace, Athos leading Roger on foot by the bit as the Musketeers, as though by unspoken agreement, take the place of the Guards around Richelieu.

Aramis and Porthos are placed further back in the procession, so it is a while before Aramis realizes that the Cardinal and Athos are carrying on a conversation of sorts, the Cardinal clearly wishing to distract himself from his indignity. “A fine beast,” he hears the Cardinal say; “I would imagine his calm nature is of use to you.”

“Indeed, your Eminence. A musketeer’s mount must not shy in battle, nor abandon its master.”

If Aramis didn’t know him better, he’d think Athos was boasting.

“And most handsome, to boot,” the Cardinal says, leaning sideways slightly to pass a critical eye over Roger’s forelocks and flanks. “If you can spare him, I would pay you a handsome sum for him. One can never afford to ignore such resources as these.”

Athos inclines his head graciously, but does not reply; next to Aramis, Porthos frowns.

A few minutes later, as Fontainebleau comes into view in the distance and the track grows rutted with overuse, Roger snorts and shies, prancing sideways at some unknown threat or rabbit-hole, dragging Athos with him and nearly unseating the Cardinal; Porthos’s expression lightens, and Aramis has to bit his lip to keep from smiling. Athos’s apologies are effusive, the Cardinal suitably flustered; by the time the whole party arrives and the Cardinal has mustered himself enough to sweep off to the King’s chambers as imperiously as he ever does, Aramis can’t help but sidle up to Athos in the stables and satisfy his curiosity.

“So, how many apple slices did that take?”

The corner of Athos’s mouth twitches as he starts to undo the buckles of his saddle. “Just the one.”


	5. Horseshoes

Athos has slept on his feet before. It is a skill absolutely complementary to soldiering, to endure the long, sweaty or freezing nights of guard duty (only when one has made an explicit agreement with one’s fellows to switch from watch to watch, of course); on the battlefield it has stood him in good stead to be able to catch his rest sitting in the saddle or leaning up against a battlement, waiting for dawn and the signal to charge, or for the latest bullet to crack into the stone sheltering him.

The necessity comes up far less in Paris than with the army, but nonetheless, it has come in useful, and never more so than now; even where, for once, he is comfortable doing it, waking slowly to the press of a saddle-blanket against his cheek, and the smell of wet straw and hair – and, of course, the sight of Porthos staring at him from across Roger’s withers.

“What the hell?” the big man says, half-laughing and half more than a little confused.

Roger shifts from hoof to hoof, and Athos yawns, pulling himself and his bent spine up straight. “The farrier came by ungodly early,” he says, by way of explanation, but he sees that Porthos is none the wiser. “He won’t stay still for the shoeing without – ”

Porthos’s expression clears, and there it is, the laughter, leaking out of him in a low, long giggle. “ _Wrapped_ around his finger,” he says later to Aramis, once Athos has made his way out to the yard and is promptly falling asleep again onto the edge of the table. “Well, if he _had_ fingers, that is…”


	6. Swimming

The ambush would have been nothing to worry about had he not been alone; as it is, however, on courier duty to Chartres and not expecting danger, Athos has no choice but to flee. It is easy, in fact, to outride the ragged band of bandits – not noticeably trained, and most likely attracted to the simple sight of a lone traveler even with his fleur-de-lis hidden beneath a nondescript cloak – in the dense summer foliage of the nearby woods, and Roger’s hooves are quiet enough in the matted leaves and needles that he has no fear of eventually being able to rejoin the road and continue on his way.

Of far more concern, in fact, than his pursuers is the creek he arrives at halfway down a sun-dappled slope, and the way Roger suddenly digs in his heels and refuses to walk through it. Dismounting, Athos can see the river is swollen and deepened by recent hot rains; it runs quickly and strong, probably stronger than he can be aware. With shouts echoing behind him, however, and getting steadily closer, there is not much choice; he holds the reins loosely in his left hand, giving Roger his head, and with the other hand urges him forward into the water.

It is colder than he would have expected, sending shockwaves through his legs, and all at once, Roger is entirely unamused. He surges forward with a snort, pulling Athos off his feet, and in the ensuing, splashing scramble Athos loses track of where the surface is, his hat instantly plastered to his head, and by the time he breaks upright into the air again, spluttering, it is to the sight of Roger waiting on the opposite bank, dripping, and staring at Athos hanging on to the end of his reins with what can only be described as loathing, ears flat back and hooves dug into the mud.

It is an undignified arrival, in the end, as he crawls out of the water, and as the cold seeps out of him Athos immediately regrets sensation returning to his right knee, which throbs hard; he sits in a heap on damp leaves, shakes his head to get wet hair out of his eyes, and returns Roger’s look with interest. “I hardly think the kick was necessary, _mon cher_ ,” he grunts, rolling up his breeches to look at his swiftly-purpling kneecap.

“Be my guest,” he calls to the bandits, gesturing at the creek as their own, rather mangy horses buck and shy on the bank. It is but the work of a moment to hobble over to Roger, who is looking somewhat chastened for a change, and make good his escape.

If it rains before they get to Paris, he decides, he will walk them straight through it rather than making for the nearest inn. It is high time, it seems, that both of them are reacquainted with the art of swimming.


	7. Interlude(s)

The barn is half-derelict; with its roof half-sunken in and stones covered with moss it promises little other than shelter from the wind, but for now, that is enough. The Plaine d’Alsace is grey with rain, clouds towering over dulled stretches of farmland rich with the promise of the harvest, as he shakes the rain off of his hat and leads his mount carefully under the remaining eaves, both of their heads lowered. The remnants of hay scattered across the hard-packed earthen floor offer a bare minimum of comfort, but no sustenance; neither of them will eat this night.

He sits, an hour later, on the rotting sill of a window crudely cut into the barn’s remaining wall, holding a lit clay pipe between his quiet hands, grateful for what little warmth its bowl provides. The Plaine seems deserted, its inhabitants chased away to places unknown by the storm; in the distance there are spires, dotted here and there, shrinking and advancing, the only evidence besides the neat rows of fields that anyone at all has colonized it.

He could have gone into one of those villages, he knows; could have found an inn, a bed stuffed with straw reaped the previous season and in the last stages of decay before being replaced. He could have begged the mercy of a country _abbé_ , taken the shelter of sanctuary in a little parish home with the priest’s nervous young wife offering him every kind of hospitality.

But he has remained here, instead; taken the thirty minutes to remove the sodden leather, the damp blanket, from his horse’s back, spreading them over the ground and what beams can hold their weight to dry; a handful of straw miraculously kept dry has served to rub down the steaming coat, his hands planing gentle and consciously along flanks trembling with fatigue; he has kept a brush and pick in one of the saddlebags, and has used them, scraping away the mud of the road, the pricks of brambles and burrs. He gave the horse its head, finally, and, displaying not a whit of curiosity for his surroundings, it stands sleeping quietly, head lowered, tail unconsciously keeping away flies.

He puts his head back, swaddled in his dark blue cloak, eventually, leaned back against a post and grateful for its support after a day of nodding and tipping in the saddle. It is approaching dawn: soon the bells at the tops of those spires will be ringing, and he will ride on to Paris. For now, however, he is content, finally, to close his eyes.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of the atmosphere of this chapter was inspired by some very interesting observations of horses as urban/rural interlocutors in 17th-century Dutch painting, in Alexandra Turnbull's article "The Horse In Landscape: Animals, Grooming, Labour and the City in the Seventeenth-Century Netherlands," _Shift: Graduate Journal of Visual and Material Culture_ 3 (2010): 1-24.


	8. Campfire

“He’ll have ‘is head off in a minute,” Porthos says, chuckling low and deep from his place beside the fire.

“Hush, now,” Aramis says, smile and eyes twinkling around the genteel cloud of smoke rising from his clay pipe. “We wouldn’t want to disturb them.”

“Which one?” Porthos asks, and Aramis tilts his head a little to one side, narrowing his eyes at the silent and unconscious competition going on on the other side of their campfire. Athos has come close to perfecting the art of throwing punches in one’s sleep, but Roger, in turn, is aware enough of his master’s ways that he is able to continue his campaign of pulling, pulling, and nuzzling Athos’s face this way and that without fear of harm.

It is remarkable, really, Porthos reflects, that Athos – the lightest sleeper he has ever encountered, and, considering their line of work, with good reason – somehow knows, without needing to wake, that he is in no danger from this persistent show of affection, and therefore allows himself his rest.

And in any case, it turns out that Athos has found a solution, somnolent as he remains; with a small murmur, and a turn onto his side, his flailing arm catches around Roger’s neck and stays there, pulling the horse’s big, warm head into his armpit. To Porthos’s surprise, Roger seems perfectly happy with this arrangement, and indeed seizes his chance to go to sleep, weight calmly shifting onto three legs and long lashes closing nearly shut.

“Well, I’ll be,” Porthos muses.

Aramis snorts and knocks out the ashes of his tobacco on his boot. “Mad. The pair of them.”

“Pot, kettle,” Porthos yawns, and in turn lies down with Aramis’s noisy, complaining head tucked under his elbow. There are, after all, few ways to sleep more comforting than with a friend this close.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unabashedly inspired by Lucky Luke in the James Huth film of the same name, who sleeps with his horse Jolly Jumper in a headlock at all times. Couldn't resist. XD


	9. Duel

Porthos takes his cloak and doublet; Aramis, his pistols and pouches. The division of himself feels fitting, as he stretches briefly and, in the cramped space underneath the awning in the alleyway, plants his feet wide to get a sense of the slippery cobbles beneath the matted mud and straw. Athos’s opponent is doing much the same twenty feet away, surrounded by his own seconds, telling him that – in principle, at least – he faces a man whose confidence is somewhat matched by skill and preparation.

“Well,” Aramis says lightly, as Athos takes swordhilt in hand and adjusts the cracked leather of his gloves carefully around it to ensure his grip. “You shan’t have anyone in particular to answer to if you lose, I suppose.”

There is no malice in it – in fact, he understands the joke in Aramis’s tone, and knows that it is meant in support and unquestioning confidence. It still stings, however, to be reminded that if, through some misfortune, he were to fail, here, it would be himself alone who would bear the burden of it.

Next to them, with wool and leather draped over his forearm, Porthos pats Roger’s neck with quiet assurance. “Two hundred _louis_ , he bet on you,” the big man says admiringly to the black, tufted ear. “’S not your fault the git couldn’t take no for an answer.”

“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble,” Athos says archly, and Porthos and Aramis’s quiet giggles alert the group at the other end of the alleyway; the duelist strides forward, slashing and whistling his sword through the air in a show of cocky competence.

“See if I give you sugar again before the end of the year,” Athos mutters, and turns to defend his kin.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be gone for so long, all - RL has kicked my arse since the start of September! Hoping to get more regularly back into writing in the next month or so. Thanks for your continuing comments and kudos in the meantime. :-) This idea came from my horsey sister C.


	10. Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler tag for Episode 2x01, "Keep Your Friends Close"!

“Were you worried?”

“That we’d find him? No,” Athos replies, with a slight shrug; his hands do not pause in their work of picking out burrs and stones from mane and hoofs. “I had more doubt of his loyalty than of that.”

“Come now,” Aramis says, his face a mirror of Porthos’s as both of them twist their mouths with disgust. “You could hardly think Rochefort would prove a better master.”

“To a man, of course not,” Athos grumbles – he is hidden from view, now, swaying slightly under a pile of tack. “But this is just a horse.”

 _Just?_ Aramis mouths across to Porthos, and for a moment he’s inclined to be worried. But then he sees that Porthos’s smile is as broad and warm as ever, and that, in fact, he is instants away from laughing as Athos deposits his gear on the other side of the stable and returns to them, only to gently slap Roger’s questing muzzle away from his pocket.

“Traitor,” Athos mutters, and Aramis cannot help but giggle, realizing, finally, that if this is the extent of Athos’s self-punishment for his imaginary negligence, things are looking up.


	11. The Act of Naming

There has been many an occasion, over Athos’s years as a Musketeer, on which he has found himself – whether far from home or close, wounded or in perfect health, exhausted or spurred on by some otherworldly fire – needing a horse, any horse, to make good an escape, a pursuit, or an errand of vital importance. The pages of that English bard are with him in these moments, often, along with the remembrance of carefully tended pages under his father’s hands, and the smell of burning book-spines, as his hands seek out the nearest pommel – the nearest saddle, nearest bridle, nearest beast whose back carries the kingdom’s weight. It has never mattered much, to him, what color or height or breed; what matters has always been his destination (Porthos, Aramis, Treville, Madame Bonacieux’s face at a window).

Once he has been properly accepted into the regiment, and once it has been made clear to him that the grooms at the garrison have their routines, thank you very much, and a better eye for horseflesh and the seat of a particular gentleman in a particular four-legged silhouette when on glorious parade at the palace, he finds himself more than contented with their choice. It takes another two years, or thereabouts, until he realizes, with that sort of slow self-knowledge that accumulates into epiphany – not one that shocks or disturbs, but that smoothes jagged edges and calms the mind – that he finds himself prickled, ill at ease, when it is not that particular pommel, not that particular discolored section of the reins that perfectly fits his hands, not that particular pair of alert black ears.

They do not matter, these differences. Unless his mount is actually unfit, and cannot perform the work he demands of it, it means nothing to that base requirement: his ability to fight, to defend his and others’ honor. But he misses them, nonetheless, these badges of identity which have nothing to do with either of them.

He names Roger during the winter of 1628, at La Rochelle, thinking of thickets of Grecian spears; and promising that from then on, he will allow himself the luxury of minding these things.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Roger' is Old Norman and means 'famous spear.'


	12. Destinations

*

Midway through 1629, Athos realizes that Roger has not only taken to recognizing his master’s step, voice, and bearing, but that the brute is fully aware of exactly what and who his idiotic, un-believable friends are, too.

To be fair, he’s aware of how much of that knowledge originates with him. He knows that he rides to each of them differently; knows that each summons brings with it a particular tilt of his body forwards in the saddle, a certain style of spur or different clutch on his reins.

Treville necessitates urgency and calm together, a straight back and turned-out heels; whether or not he is riding to the Captain at the palace or at the garrison, he owes nothing less than what is tenuously his best to this source of quiet salvation.

They ride at a more sedate pace to Porthos’s side; not through any dereliction of duty or friendship, but because by the time they arrive Porthos is more than likely to have taken care of his business in a manner efficiently, cheerfully, and violently his own, and to infringe upon that pleasure is not something Athos thinks would ever be proper.

He rides fastest to Aramis, because there often lies the most exasperation, and the greatest need for discretion which can be assured only by the judicious use of time. Roger does not take well to the fourth time Aramis slithers out of a window onto the horse’s hindquarters at a very early hour of the morning, with a shrieking husband fighting his way through the curtains; master and mount take their revenge together later, when they get to tip a happily snoring Aramis off of Athos’s shoulder and into the garrison trough.

Athos could swear his blasted horse _laughs_ in Aramis’s face as he splutters his way, soaked and undignified, back into wakefulness. _He_ certainly does.

*


	13. Warhorse

*

The first military camp at the Spanish border stretches out over acres; it is sweltering hot, muddy, and can be heard – and smelled – from miles away along with the clap and dull thuds of cannon. What they could possibly be shooting at besides some hillsides or farmsteads Athos cannot guess, but if there’s one thing he has learned on previous campaigns it is that the waste of shot, men, and time is not only encouraged but often required of war.

The first horse from the garrison’s column shies and breaks ranks when they are still two miles away, spooked by a distant bristle of musket fire; by the time the collection of filthy tents has hoved into view mounts are shrieking and plunging at random, the panic flattening ears and widening eyes as they toss their riders, teeth bared and panting, into the muck. It takes half an hour to calm them as the officers wait as quietly as they can manage, allowing jeering infantry to pass them by; then Roger’s front hooves slip sideways, Aramis’s horse squeals, and there’s only one thing for it.

There is a reason, it turns out, for a Musketeer’s prized accoutrements and fashion choices beyond vanity. d’Artagnan grumbles about making use of Constance’s first marriage gift to him – a silk-embroidered scarf which he’d prefer to keep next to his own skin rather than that of his horse – while Porthos’s bandanna, Aramis’s sash, and Athos’s scarf have seen this duty many a time. 

In the end, their entrance into the camp is the quietest of the long afternoon. Blindfolded, their treasured mounts follow them so docilely one would almost think them tame; with Roger’s breath hot and trusting on the back of his hand, Athos can only hope that tomorrow will be as peaceful.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter _His Lofty Steed_ is officially going on an indefinite hiatus - mostly because I'm running out of ideas, and it's a long while until we'll get new episode inspiration! I hope you've enjoyed them thus far, and maybe Roger'll be back next year. Thank you xox

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, I looked to Spenser for my title inspirations - there are a looooot of horses and steeds and mounts in _The Faerie Queene_ , as you might imagine, so I just went with the most common descriptor. He is, after all, lofty and noble. *G*


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